


strings on me

by sentimentary (surveycorpsjean)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Getting Together, Kind of a character study, M/M, Possessive Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 01:52:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15547002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surveycorpsjean/pseuds/sentimentary
Summary: “It’s all such a bad idea.”“Us, you mean?” John smiles shortly, “We were always a bad idea.”





	strings on me

**Author's Note:**

> based on [this](https://pin.it/6hkypyzdp3eqen) moodboard my friend put together

 

 

His knees will never forgive him for this, surely. Wounds will heal, stitches will pull, but his kneecaps will ache for  _years._ John is just too damn old to be kidnapped these days.

He looks up and across the warehouse, to where they have Sherlock on his knees, gun nestled into the crook of his neck. They’re speaking in Italian. Sherlock can no doubt understand, but he’s staring straight to John, jaw set, mask on.

It’s the first they’ve seen each other in forty-eight hours. The mob just brought Sherlock off the dock, zip-tied in a car boot, and John had never been so relieved. Two days is a bloody long time to be handcuffed to a support beam. John’s wrists have rubbed so raw against the cuffs that the blood has dried over and over, and it’s itchy beyond words.

But all things considered, John’s doing alright. Could be worse, and all that. His morale has improved drastically now that Sherlock is here, and he most definitely has a plan, given his lack of a reaction to whatever these arseholes are yelling about.

John waits; but Sherlock continues to stare. It takes a moment to realize that Sherlock is  _reading him –_ head, arms, knees, eyes skimming this way and that, cataloguing injuries at a superhuman rate.

 _I’m okay,_ John mouths, but Sherlock’s face only turns darker. Oh, he’s livid, isn’t he? Alright, now’s  _really_ not the time – but by each passing moment, Sherlock looks more and more like he could burst out of those zipties through pure wrathful determination. And god, is that a turn on. Shh, shut up! Right, right, not the time –  

A mobster pauses, waiting for a response from Sherlock. When he doesn’t get one, he clocks Sherlock across the face with the gun, and John jerks against the cuffs, “Hey!”

“Aye, I already told you morons, hittin won’t fuckin’ work.” A man comes walking around the corner, cigarette in hand. He speaks in English – and oh, this is the  _guy._ The one that Sherlock was fixated on two weeks ago; the unsolved case of Bruno Papetti.

“Remember the point of catchin’ fishes?” He grips John by the back of the hair and yanks back, clunking his head against the support beam. John bears his teeth and snarls, and Sherlock jerks, seemingly uncaring about the gun against his jugular. Papetti laughs, “Bait.”

Any normal person would be quite upset right now. John is an adrenaline addict, and even  _he_  isn’t too cheeky about the throbbing at the back of his skull.

But the caged, animalistic rage in Sherlock’s eyes is a high that John didn’t know he needed. He quickly blinks away the pain and sputters, “I’m okay, Sherlock I’m okay.”   _Don’t got shot. Please, Sherlock. Don’t get shot._

His words are precise. Steady and enunciated, slow, like he might snap if he speaks too quickly.

“Let him go.”

“I don’t like people poking in my business,” Papetti says, and slips his hand down to grip John by the jaw. “I know you got a leg in with the law. Keep them out of my ring, and I’ll let this one keep all his teeth,” he grins, and digs harder. It fucking  _hurts,_ bruising pressure into the soft spots of John’s face. He squeezes and squeezes and squeezes. John can’t help it. He whines.  

And well, that seems to do it. Sherlock snaps the zip ties behind his back, grabs the gun by his neck and flips it, firing into the foot of the mobster on his right. This seems as good an opportunity as ever; John slams his back up against the beam, gets his feet out from under himself and rams his forehead against Papetti’s. It doesn’t knock him out, but it does send him backwards a foot or two, and oh, the sweet sound of police sirens.

It takes three officers to pry Sherlock off Papetti.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s no sleepover at Barts, thank god.

Sherlock is eerily quiet. From the crime scene, to the hospital, now walking up the stairs of 221B. It’s not right. The post-case high is supposed to be the best part of it all. But John feels weird in his skin, sore and exhausted and the silence from Sherlock is no better.

John slips off his coat, and gives a once-over of the flat. A big mass of papers have been swept onto the desk, and there’s a gut-wrenching realization that they’re the leads of John’s investigation. Half-cups of instant-coffee are thrown about, furniture pushed where it shouldn’t be, papers and papers and more papers.

There’s a lot that John wants to say. Instead he checks the bandage on his wrist and sighs, “You’re lucky Greg isn’t locking you up tonight.”

There’s a wall, suddenly, pressing against his shoulders. John doesn’t tense, but he does allow himself a look of surprise.

They’ve been doing this for a long time. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Consulting Detective and his Army Doctor.

 This isn’t John’s First Boo-Boo; he’s seen more injuries following Sherlock down fire escapes than when he went to bloody  _war,_ fucking hell _._ At least he was only shot the once.

And yet that fiery look is back, hot and blazing in Sherock’s eyes, his own internal war.

John prides himself on being a quick study, at least. He knows this man better than anyone else in his  _life._ The difference between minute eyebrow twitches. Real tears and fake ones. Case withdrawals, and the bad nights, when he’s scratching behind his ears and curling up on the kitchen floor. John  _knows_ him.

This face he knows too. And it hurts a bit to look at.

Sherlock presses a hand up against John’s cheek, and John tries not to hold his breath. It takes a moment for John to realize that he’s brushing across the fingerprints on his jaw.

“I hate this,” Sherlock says.

John doesn’t dare move. They’ve always had this here; the crackling energy between them, a common knowledge of what they  _could_ be, but too afraid of what they’ll lose along the way.

The papers see it, their friends see it, and oh, they see it too.

These moments are rare. When the veil is thin, and John can’t seem to remember why making out against a wall is a very, very bad idea. Just one kiss, please, just one.

Sherlock is staring like these bruises are personal libel against his being. His hands are warm, and John drinks it in, tries to inhale while he’s so close, because he doesn’t know when he’ll have Sherlock like this again.

That lizard in his brain, the one that John can never quite keep away – it slithers and hisses and grins.

_Cover them. Bruise me more and make them yours._

But Sherlock is gone as soon as he came, a whirlwind of a coat, oxfords clacking against wood floor.  His door slams shut.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning is just as normal as ever.

Sherlock is back to lounging half across the couch, thrown about and lain like a true queen. Ms. Hudson is blasting music from downstairs, vacuuming to the tune of an electric guitar. The flat smells faintly like sulfur and dust balls, and it’s great to be home again.

John sets the tea, rummaging around for a bagel. Sherlock sighs loudly and says, “Idleness was made to torture the genius.”

John hums good naturedly, “Don’t tell me you’re already itching for a case.”

“No,” Sherlock says, drawing John’s attention enough to make him peek back into the living room.

“No?”

“It will take ten days for your wrists to heal, and your knees will be sore for another fourteen,” Sherlock says, like John doesn’t already know. He steeples his fingers and stares at the ceiling. “Lestrade will text me a few sixes to pass the time.”

John smiles and pours a second cup for Sherlock, heading his way, “Well don’t die of boredom for my sake.”

“No,” Sherlock frowns. “What happened yesterday was unacceptable.” He sits up rocket fast, and John nearly spills on the rug, “John, accept my apology.”

He sets a cup on the coffee table and hobbles over to his own chair, laughing, “Is that a demand?”

“Yes – no. John-“

“You found me,” John says, drawing Sherlock’s full attention. “You solved the case, Sherlock. You have nothing to apologize for, and I won’t hear the rest of it.”

Sherlock is staring. Eyes glazed, visibly unhappy. John self-consciously runs a hand over the print on his cheek.

“Ugly looking thing, isn’t it?” John jokes.

Sherlock’s face twists into something John can’t recognize, and he dramatically rolls, face turning to the couch cushions. “Quite unsightly. Best not leave the flat,” Sherlock snaps, slightly muffled.

“Best not,” John mumbles.

Ass. It’s not like Sherlock doesn’t have a big ol’ bruise over his temple, none prettier than John’s. Remember the pistol you were slapped with? Whatever.

He watches Sherlock for just a moment longer, a frustrated rise and fall of his shoulders. He’s tense, and John doesn’t blame him. The evidence of John’s kidnaping has long been shoved into the trash bin, but the ache in John’s arms remind him that it was very much real.

Sherlock looks shaken. It’s likely he didn’t eat the days John was missing. He knows Sherlock won’t outright say he was worried, but John is capable of a deduction or two of his own.

Even pouting, rolled into the couch like a little brat, John can’t help but love him.

It’s not something that haunts him anymore. Maybe once, years ago, under low café-lighting – back when Sherlock would read the ingredients of a ketchup bottle by heart, and tell him about the waiter who’s sleeping with the cook. Maybe then, his palms would sweat and he’d rub at his thighs and think  _no, no, I can’t possibly, not with him –_

But it’s no more than a fact of life now. It rains in spring and snows in winter and some piece of John’s heart will always belong to Sherlock. It is what it is.

 

* * *

 

 

Things haven’t been right since the Pappetti case. Or maybe, that smack against the support beam made John realize a thing or two.

Sherlock popping up on a date isn’t uncommon. It never was from day one – and as much as John kicked and bit and screamed, it’s merely something to be expected now. John started making reservations for three years ago; it saves time, and they avoid pissing off the staff when Sherlock lugs a chair across the restaurant. Three tickets to Cats please, three seats for Morrissey, oh – table for three?

It’s not until he’s well into his fourth date this month – a nice bird named Cassy, from the bank – that John realizes how  _odd_ it all is.

The date is going well. They’ve hardly paid any attention to the movie, and if the hand on his thigh is anything to go by, they should be set to nab a taxi back to her place.

They’re one step out of the theater, before Cassy pauses and says, “Oh. Sherlock.”

“Three hours, really?” Sherlock lowers the paper he wasn’t reading, his disguise nothing but a baseball cap and sunglasses. “They require  _three hours_ to tell a story about dinosaurs?”

John is pretty damn sure he was about to go get laid – and yet he’s delighted to see Sherlock, sticking his hands in his pockets and smiling,

“Well thirty minutes of trailers really.”

“A gun would be kinder,” Sherlock says, and flips his newspaper back up when a man walks by.

Cassy clears her throat, and Sherlock huffs. “Oh, right. Nice to meet you.”

“We’ve met.”

“Surely.”

“I should be going,” Cassy drawls, in a tone that suggests that John is invited. She adjusts her purse on her arm, and glances to Sherlock, before leaning up to kiss John goodnight.

But a newspaper hits John in the thigh, and he jerks back a little, missing the kiss by a smidge.

“John! That’s him.”

“That’s who?”

“Don’t be daft, look how he’s dressed.”

John peers around to glance at the parking lot, and sees a man walking towards the McDonalds down the way. Black vest, patches, too many belts.

“Well someone just stepped out of the Motley Crue.”

“He is the murderer. It’s not the tattoo  _ink,_ John, it’s a chemical reaction with the gloves he uses.”

“Brilliant,” John blinks. “We going to go catch ‘em?”

Sherlock smiles, big and beautiful, even behind stupid sunglasses. “Right pocket.”

Phone, wallet, gun.

 

It’s not until they’re well into the night, finally back at Baker street, that John realizes Cassy went home. John flips his phone around in his hand and sighs, “Should I bother a call?”

“She’s already on the fence,” Sherlock says. He’s fluttering about the flat, not focusing on one thing or another – and it’s obvious he won’t be sleeping tonight, despite another case closed.

John winces, “Ouch.”

“Don’t be mawkish, it’s obvious she wasn’t the one,” Sherlock picks up a book and shoves it somewhere else on the shelf for absolutely no reason.

John scrubs at his cheek, already feeling the burn of stubble from staying awake for so long. He shrugs, “You’re right, but the shag might’ve been top.”

Sherlock visibly freezes. Like hitting pause on the DVR.

“Oh John,” he says, voice turning cold, “you are pitifully incapable of a relationship with  _‘no strings attached’._ Your emotions are much too loud and in the way.”

“You have no idea what I’m capable of,” John says easy, and a deep, ugly part of him  _preens_ at the hardened look on Sherlock’s face. He’s ever-so disgusted at the talk of love and intimacy, but sometimes, John likes to pretend it’s jealousy. That for whatever ungodly circumstance, Sherlock would have reason to be possessive over  _him._

Sherlock is back to fidgeting around the room. Eventually the shuffling turns into the sharp zip of a violin case, and the rushed melody of Mozart. John lets himself close his eyes and drift between the line of consciousness.

 

* * *

 

 

Three hours’ sleep on a worknight shouldn’t be so surprising, but damn does it hit hard every single time.

It takes a whole pot of coffee just to get him to lunchtime, and another five-hour energy to make it through the afternoon. He’s thirty-minutes off when he gets a text along the lines of  _murder suicide at Bromley, come immediately – SH_

It’s obviously not  _just_ a murder-suicide, or else Sherlock wouldn’t have bothered at all.

John manages to get out ten minutes early –  _“Oh you poor thing, you look exhausted, sure, we’ll see you Monday!“_

It’s a twenty-minute taxi ride. Just as John is about to ask the exact location, Sherlock texts him an address. John figures he can swallow his exhaustion for just a while longer. He yawns a thank you to the cabbie, and nods a hello to Donovan on his way past the police tape.

“He’s already causing a scene,” Donovan crosses her arms. “Best get in there.”

“Ta,” John sighs. He blows heat into his hands, and steps foot into the laundromat.

It’s not any fucking warmer – but at least the smell of fresh laundry is enough to cover the stench of death. Actually no, “Jesus,” John covers his nose.

Sherlock is standing with his hands behind his back, game face on. His hair is a frazzled mess, a shade none lighter than his suit. Eyes narrowed, fingers clenched – someone’s in a right mood today. He’s speaking to someone John doesn’t recognize. 

“John,” Sherlock doesn’t turn – doesn’t even move, “Thank god, someone with average intelligence.”

He glances around, “Where’s Lestrade?”

“Out sick I’m afraid,” the man says, and outstretches his hand. “Clyde Bradbury, detective inspector for the fiftieth precinct.”

 “John Watson.” They shake hands, and he’s got a good grip, this guy. John gets a real look at him, and he’s quite a sight. Young, disgustingly handsome.

Bradbury smiles, “I’ve heard quite a bit ‘bout you two,”

“Called you in, did they?”

“Yes. Your friend isn’t too happy about it, either.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Five years experience, max. His step-father is old money, put in a good name for him while he was in the academy.” Sherlock snuffs, “I don’t work with amateurs.”

“Impressive!” 

“Excuse him,” John says. “Where are the bodies?”

Sherlock reaches out, and dramatically shoves aside a fit of laundry hanging on a bar. There’s a woman laying dead on the floor, and a man hung from one of the racks.

“Bloody hell,” John breathes.

“Bit of an understatement,” Bradbury says. He stands just as tall as Sherlock, if not taller, and he exudes a casual confidence of someone who – well, has job security. Old money, huh?

John nods, “Right then. You wanna’ spell it out for us, Sherlock?” 

“Dead three days,” he says, “The first victim is Tracy Takamoto. Changed her name when she came to the states, yes, the states – four years at Berkeley, studied Anthropology by the look of her wrists-“

“I’ll let you get to work then,” Bradbury clasps John on the shoulder. “Want to grab a bite while he – well, does his thing?”

Sherlock immediately bristles. John isn’t too happy about this guy interrupting Sherlock mid-deduction, but god, John hasn’t eaten all day. The case doesn’t look too complex – the noses are missing, but he’s sure Sherlock has already worked that out.

“I am rather starving,” John mutters. He turns to Sherlock, “I’m not really needed, am I?”

The look on his face freezes John mid-step. It’s so quick, so  _subtle,_ that no one sans-Mycroft (maybe), could catch it. Its undeniably a flash of hurt, and it’s gone as quick as it came.

 “Of course I need you,” Sherlock snaps. “Unless you’d rather play  _date the DI.”_

“I’m sorry, Inspector,” John turns on a dime. “Thank you for the invite, but we’d best get to work before the whole block smells like rot.”

Bradbury gives a friendly smile, and squeezes John’s shoulder before letting go. “No worries! Let me give you my work number, call me if you need a warrant or two.” He dips his hand into John’s pocket – not subtle enough to miss Sherlock’s eye – and types into John’s phone. John can feel a thousand yard stare hot into the side of his head, and he avoids it like the devil.

“Thank you,” John says.

Clyde Bradbury waves a short goodbye, and disappears out the door to speak with the officers there.

“Hm,” John slips his phone back in. “Charming fellow. Greg always asks for an essay before he issues a search warrant.”

 _“Charming,_ ” Sherlock repeats, spitting the word like it tastes bad. “He’s a serial cheater with a gambling habit. Don’t waste your time.”

John blinks. Sherlock hops over the counter, and begins to search the hanging body.

“Wait, was he flirting with me?”

“Quite. Obviously.”

“Oh,” John looks back over his shoulder. He says more to himself than Sherlock, “He was attractive, wasn’t he?”

“Fine!” Sherlock shouts, and throws up his arms, “Go! Have  _wonderfully_ mindblowing sex while a murderer skips though the streets of London cutting off human cartilage. I hope you elope in Hawaii and have a spring wedding way out of my hair.”

John crosses his arms, “Now you’re just being an asshole. Surely you’ve already solved it.”

“Don’t think so highly of me,” Sherlock huffs. He’s all ruffled now, puffed up and agitated. “Why would one be a murder, and the other framed a suicide?”

“Well, to make it look like the man did it, surely?”

“But they didn’t even  _try._ No fingerprints on the weapon, no physical contact between these victims whatsoever,” Sherlock frowns. “And why would a man cut off his own nose? Tad ridiculous.”

“Van Gough cut off his ear,” John shrugs.

“Van Gough was a moron.”

Sherlock’s sleeve catches on a hanger. He yanks angrily, knocking a few off the rack and onto the floor.

“Sherlock, really –“

“Just go,” he snaps. “I’ll solve it myself.”

“What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing! Just leave!” Sherlock pulls out his glass, and examines the ears of the victim.

Fine. “I’ll be outside when you’re ready,” John huffs, and stalks back out the door.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hmm, a bit of a dog’s dinner, that.”

“Useless,” Sherlock slams the door, and it rattles the bolts. “I  _hate_ criminals who choose victims at random. It’s boring and tasteless.”

One of the lamps flicker from the force. John slips off his coat, and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. John never does like when Sherlock yells – his voice is too deep to be stretched across words that way.

He’s really too tired to deal with this.

“You said nothing is truly random. I’m sure you’ll find a correlation somewhere.”

“Takamoto was laundering money through Flo’s Laundromat. At least she had a sense of humor,” Sherlock mumbles. He pauses a moment, before letting out a shout, and swatting a stack of papers off the table, “But it means  _nothing!_ ”

“Sherlock! Get it together,” John snaps.

“I hate that inspector,” Sherlock hisses. “He’s buggering this case up entirely.”

“He’s done nothing but be friendly.”

 _“He kept touching you!”_ Sherlock inhales, shaking his hands by his head, “I can’t think!”

John squares his shoulders, and stares Sherlock down. God — the nerve!

“He touched my shoulder  _once._ Quittaking offense whenever someone is  _mildly_ attracted to me.”

Sherlock laughs humorless and bitter, “You never see, John. Never. Brushing his hand down your back, rubbing his thumb over your wrist when he snatched your phone,” he stalks closer, and John finds his feet glued to the floor. “A squeeze on the shoulder? Misdirection. He slipped a paper in your pocket. Presumably his personal number.”

John feels for it.

_Call me._

“Oh.”

Sherlock stares. He’s reading John’s face, trying to decide something. John absolutely hates how his body goes warm against his own will.

Sherlock turns away, turns back, spins in a circle and moves to pull out his hair, before flying closer, “Ugh!”

“Sherlock,” John reaches for his arm. “Are you okay?”

“I can’t  _focus._ I can’t – I can’t  _think.”_ Sherlock steps into him, near in his face. “John.”

His heartbeat is in his ears. John wants this to mean something. Wants it  _so_ bad, that he reaches up and pulls Sherlock’s hand out of his hair.

He thinks realistically, “Do you have a list?”

“I’m  _sober,_ ” Sherlock snarls.

John tries to speak calm, but it’s like staring at the heart of a storm, right here under your hands. Vibrating and spinning itself into an oblivion. John isn’t so ashamed of his idiot brain, on days like these.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap to him, and its empowering. Holding the focus of a beast that could turn any moment now.

“They keep touching you,” Sherlock says, shaky.

“Who.”

“Everyone,” Sherlock tries to yank away, but John holds him still. He rambles, “You’re not mine but  _god-_ you’re not, you’re –“ he inhales, hands coming up to press exactly where those bruises used to be.

John swallows hard against his hands.

Sherlock is so rarely inarticulate – but he’s reading John, feeling him melt under his fingertips. He exhales, “It’s all such a bad idea.”

“Us, you mean?” John smiles shortly, “We were always a bad idea.”

Sherlock must feel his heartrate. An unspoken thing? Not so much, anymore. It’s a  _storm_ in here, they’re so close and it’s so dark and John wants, wants so bad it’s shaking him apart. Sherlock knows. Sherlock  _knows_ he loves him.

His words are soft and slow and full of self-doubt, something foreign in his voice. Sherlock leans close, opens up his heart and says,

“It keeps replaying, over and over.”

“What does?”

 _“I’m not really needed, am I?”_ Sherlock quotes, in an impression of him.

John snorts, “I don’t sound like that. And well, I wasn’t really, was I? I’m your hype man, I keep you in one piece and occasionally, out of jail. I don’t know why-“

“You don’t get it!” Sherlock shouts. “You just-“

“Hey—“

He grips John by the collar and forces his eye. His voice is so low and heavy, it could split hell in two.

“You are  _necessary,_ John. I  _need_ you.”

His heart stops, starts, and then gives up entirely. Beat fast? Beat slow? Explode.

“You have me,” John says, so quickly it’s as if he rehearsed it in the mirror, over and over  _you have me you have me-_

Something bitter flashes in Sherlock’s eyes, “You're telling me what I want to hear. Don't project your misguided sexual crisis on me-“ Sherlock bites down on his own words, mid deduction.  John narrows his eyes.

"Oh, do go on. Tell me what I apparently don't know." 

A moment passes. John is suddenly aware of where they’re standing, dead center in the flat, the world gone still around them.

Sherlock lets go, and moves to step away, voice turning soft, “I’m sorry. I’m really just —“ he runs another hand into his hair, grips it tight, “I am sleep deprived. Forgive me. Good night.”

There it is. The wave of adrenaline and anger; a familiar feeling, of when he just wants to grab Sherlock by the neck and shake some sense into him.

It’s here! They always end up here! Round and round the garden, circles and circles, years and years and they’re  _here!_ Too afraid to admit what they already know. They keep trying to avoid their fate, and the universe just picks up their little chess pieces and sets them back at square one.

Do not collect two hundred dollars. Do not pass Go.

John breathes hot air, and grips his wrist, “Sherlock, you can’t keep running away from this. You can’t keep  _playing_ with me-“

“Oh I’m the one playing?!” Sherlock cries. He yanks out of John’s grip and turns down the hallway, “No, no —you’re simpleminded, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sherlock flings open his door, and John chases him down the hall. His heart is shaking at his core, watching Sherlock walk away again and again –

“Just  _do it!”_ John shouts. Fuck the late hour, fuck the neighbors. His lizard brain claws into the drivers seat and says, “ _Own me.”_

The words bounce up the ceiling, and down the hall.

His face slams up against wallpaper.

It takes a moment to register the arm pulled behind his back. Sherlock’s face is by his ear. He practially  _growls_.

“This isn’t a game to me.”

John’s brain barrels down two tracks at once.

_Step on his foot – yank out your arm – grab him by the wrist and break his hand – kick out his knees – run for the stairs–_

And then the lizard screams  _yes, god yes – bite into my soul and take everything you haven’t already –_

John, in the end, finds himself breathing a laugh against the wall. He speaks calmer this time.

“You’re acting as if I haven’t done the bloody unspeakable for you.”

Sherlock sighs. He doesn’t ease his grip any, but he presses his forehead into the back of John’s shoulder like he needs it. He’s a firm weight, and John craves the full of it.

“This isn’t something I can ask of you.”

“I’d say you’ve already asked worse.”

“To give yourself fully to me?” Sherlock tips his head, speaks against his ear, and  _oh,_ howJohn shivers. Sherlock hums, “There’s no going back. It’s –“ a beat, “— it is me who is uncapable of  _no strings attached.”_

John smiles into the wall, even if it hurts to do so. 

“Sherlock, I want all the strings you’ve got.”

 

_So do it. Tie me up with them. Wrap me so tight that everyone will know undoubtably who they lead to._

 

It’s rare to catch Sherlock off guard. Ha, what a boost to the ego. Sherlock’s grip falters, and John uses the opportunity to flip around, and face Sherlock head on. Fuck he's just, beautiful in a way a person shouldn't be. Unpredictable and dangerous and everything John lives for. 

Sherlock moves as if on instinct, hands coming up to hold John's face entirely, swooping down from that atmosphere he occupies alone. But he stops,  _just_ close enough for John to go dizzy from the whiplash. They're sharing the same air, and John breathes, inhale inhale  _inhale -_

"If I haven't made myself clear," Sherlock whispers, eyes drawn to John's lips. "I love you." 

That's a showstopper, isn't it?

John kisses him, straight on. It's not something that requires a second thought. 

Oh - but the way Sherlock falls into him... John will think about that  _forever._   Sherlock's fingers bracket his head and tip them both right, holding John's face so they can kiss _,_ god, like nothing John's ever had. John digs his fingers into Sherlock's waist and breathes it all in; old cologne sticking to Sherlock's collar, cotton from the detergent, smoke from the tube — fuck. He's soft and prickly, gentle and strong from kiss to kiss. A rollercoaster John was made for.

They pull back, and that's no good, so they kiss again, wet and warm and hard, and that's good, yes. 

Sherlock controls it, licks out the inside of his mouth and makes a sound John didn't know he was capable of. Sherlock yanks him even closer, as if they could merge into one singular being; hip to hip, cheek to cheek. John sucks on his tongue like he’ll die without it.

Sherlock breaks the kiss — looks over him with a charged glance and groans,  _"Fuck._ _"_  Sherlock kisses him again, harder, and John takes it all. His lungs heave at half capacity, and the burn is all the better for it.

"Bed or couch," John breathes, "We don't have to - I just want to make out with you for the next twelve years, fuck." 

Sherlock is smiling. Sherlock is  _smiling._

"Better call in Monday." 

He then decides the best way to go about this is to bend down and pick up John in a fireman's carry. 

"Oh my god —  _really?!"_

"Efficiency is key John," Sherlock says. He's starting to sound like himself again, so John lets himself be tossed around just this once. 

 

They kiss for a long, long time.

 

John likes to think of it as....making up for what they lost. There's too much that John has yet to learn, so much he  _needs_ to know. He feels over valley cheekbones, studies the curve of Sherlock's neck with his tongue. John wishes for a mind palace of his own, somewhere he could store all this information away and keep it like a dragon horde. 

Sherlock bites his lip. John moans from it. 

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes, watching, waiting. His cheeks are red, and he’s breathing hard, and John isn’t sure how to process the fact that he’s the cause.

Sherlock kisses John’s ear, bites it, sits back to watch John buck his hips and groan.

Sherlock is methodical in his own way.

Sucking John's tongue, slipping his hand beneath John's shirt, shoving his knee between John's thighs; each merits a pause, an observation, a very  _close_ study of the exact way John reacts. Will he make the same sound if Sherlock repeats it again? John is willing to let him find out. 

 They roll around on the bed until Sherlock's had enough; he gets John beneath him, knees under thighs, and forces John's clothes to his joints. His shirt ties up in his wrists, his jeans tangled by his knees, as if Sherlock can't be bothered to take them off fully. John lets him, fuck, looking like  _that?_   Lips swollen and sticky, eyes hot, clever and sexy and smiling like  _he's_ the lucky one. 

Sherlock can eat him alive, for all John cares. 

"Grip the bedpost," Sherlock says, and then dips between his legs and  _hm, well —_ John won't say no to that. 

 

* * *

 

He stirs to fingers in his hair. 

It's not morning yet, but it might be soon. The windows have that greyish hue to them — the kind that say  _why the hell are you awake?_

This isn't his bed. John finds that he's terribly okay with it. 

John sniffs, and turns his head. 

"Hi." 

"Hello," Sherlock says. He looks tired, but pretty. Relaxed, but distant in his usual way.

John scooches closer, because there's no good reason to be apart. Sherlock thumbs through the short hairs at the base of his neck, and if John could purr, he would. 

"What are you thinking about?" 

"That's a loaded question." 

"It isn't, really." 

Sherlock hesitates. He presses a single, long kiss to John's cheek, and lays back on the pillow. 

"It is speculated that the vandalism of the Khafre Sphinx was a hate crime. There's a considerable amount of vandalized Ancient Egyptian artwork with noses missing, and while it's never been downright proven, it's likely someone has adopted the practice onto humans. I don't have enough data to call this a theory, but there is too much to call it an intuition. I kicked you out of the crime scene today, and I am regrettably paying for it now. It takes twice as long to work when you're not there to ask stupid questions — no, don't take offense to that, I very much adore you." Sherlock pauses, "You're warmer than I thought you'd be, and you kiss different than what I've observed. You don't snore, but you grind your teeth during a nightmare, and you curl your toes when you come. Everything about you is completely, utterly ordinary so -" Sherlock stops, swallows, and looks to John. "Why am I so  _fascinated_ with you?" 

_An engine, racing out of control, a rocket, tearing itself to pieces, trapped on the launchpad —_

 “I think...” John smooths a hand down his bare side, “...we balance each other in ways we don’t understand.” 

“There is very little I don’t understand,” Sherlock says. He pauses. “You really want this, don’t you?” 

“You know it already," John says. "And you?" 

“For too long." He seems a bit sad when he says it. John feels over a scar on Sherlock's back, and asks, 

"Do you mind if I make a deduction?" 

Sherlock hums, "Do your worst." 

"You're scared.”

He doesn't hesitate in his answer, "It's likely you'll be cross with me by noon tomorrow. I won't take the worms out of the microwave, and you'll scream about picking them up off the kitchen floor. One day you'll tire of picking up worms, and I'll chain you to the bedpost because I can't bear watching you leave." 

"Wow, a psychic, now?" John jokes. "You've shown your hand, Sherlock." 

He blinks in surprise. John outright laughs. 

"Well now I know to grab a bucket before I heat up lunch. Problem solved." 

Sherlock laughs. It's a deep giggle, too cute for someone his size. John presses his thumb into the dimple that pops out of nowhere, simply because he can. 

"Tie me to the bedpost," John says. "See if I care." 

 

* * *

 

 

People say Sherlock is hard to read. Funny, because that's just not true. 

_"A bit of a nutter, that one, can never tell what he's thinkin."_

 

That's ridiculous. John isn't stupid enough to try and understand what he's thinking _._ He breaks it down.

What is Sherlock  _feeling?_

Restless hands show anxiety. Chewed lips are frustration. There's a look for when he finds something amusing, but knows he shouldn't say it aloud because it's  _a bit not good._ He has a confident way of standing, when he knows the world is against him but he has John at his back anyways. 

John will never know what Sherlock is thinking. But he always knows how he's feeling, and that's more of an effort than anyone has ever bothered to make. 

Who fears intelligence? Who could watch a man track down a criminal by the scuff on his shoe, and say  _piss off?_ Yes, he's an asshole, yes, he shouldn't always speak his mind, but how can you not be amazed at the complexity of it? How can you not find that the  _sexiest_ part about him? 

John pities the world, because they'll never know what it's like to be fully loved by Sherlock Holmes. 

John asked only once if he could hold Sherlock's hand, and you'd guess he never learned how to let go. 

"Purple glasses!" Sherlock shouts, gesturing with his hands, seemingly forgotten that John is still attached to one of them. "Purple rimmed, single studded Troy Burch lenses. Isn't it obvious?" 

No, Sherlock. It never is. But John lets him wave about his arm like a yanked puppet on a string, and is later fucked within an inch of his life against their kitchen counter. 

It's the best kind of train wreck. The kind that has you on your knees begging  _yes, please, just one more._

Alas, John isn’t one to talk. 

“You’re the biggest moron I know!” John shouts, digging glass out of Sherlock’s hand.

“I love you,” he whispers that night, on a sofa too small for them both.

 

* * *

 

 

"Egyptian sand," Sherlock says. He reaches back for the pocket, scrubs a few grains between his fingertips, and sniffs it. "Came back months ago, or else there'd be more." 

"And how could you possibly know it's bloody Egyptian. _"_

"Finer, no visible shell-chunks, orange in color." Sherlock lifts a brow, "It's as if you don't read my website." 

"I don't," Lestrade says. 

Sherlock takes offense to that, but only John notices. He turns back to the body, and skims it head to toe. Jesus, now isn't really the time - but John will always love his hands in gloves. Sherlock is at his most methodical when examining a dead body. Well, then, and... one other time. 

"John?" 

"Oh." John shifts to his knees, where Sherlock is beckoning him. "Yes?" 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "Your medical opinion?" 

"Right," John looks down. "Uh, well. Broken leg, isnit? But the swelling is all wrong for a normal break. Had to have been kicked in." 

"Swatted with a torch, but you're close dear," Sherlock says, standing. "An industrial torch, by the look of the bruise. The distorted skin around the ankle means -" 

"She snapped it on the way down." 

"The stairs, yes." 

"So she was dragged here?" 

"Yes - wait, you don't know? It's obvious she was stuffed in a car boot - carpet burns on her cheeks, wrists - you really didn't see that?" 

"We're not all you," John stands. 

There's a rookie from the Yard here today, and John is getting immense entertainment out of her reactions. 

"Wait, he really figured all that out? He's not pullin' that out of his arse?" 

"You have read the papers, haven't you?" John jokes. 

She blinks, "You really expect me to believe whas' in there?" 

"That's fair." 

"He's more offended you don't read his blog," Lestrade laughs. 

She smiles, "Why - should I?" 

John stuffs his hands in his pockets, "I mean, you don't have to- not unless you're interested in lots of murder." 

"Am I interested in  _murder?_  Don't you see the job I signed up for!" She lightly brushes John's elbow with her own. 

John laughs, and then chokes, when Sherlock rips off his scarf and decidedly ties it around John's neck. 

"We need to be at Paddington by the hour, or we might not catch the murderer for another six and a half days." 

John sputters around the scarf, and reaches up to tug it away from his mouth. "I'm not cold - " 

"Oh, freezing are you? Take my coat-" 

"Sherlock-" 

"The murderer is at Paddington?" Lestrade interrupts. John and Sherlock pause, mid-debacle of swapping clothes. 

Sherlock scoffs, " _Going_ to be, do you even pay attention?" He shrugs his coat back on, but forces John to keep his scarf. There's something finite about his attitude - like licking a toy and saying  _it's mine! i licked it so it's mine!_

John finds he doesn't mind too much. The scarf smells nice anyways. He takes a deep inhale, and revels in the way Sherlock's step falters just slightly. 

"You always smell good," John says, as soon as they're in the taxi. Sherlock jams him up against the window and kisses him, a generous wad of cash splayed in one hand, showing the cabbie just what he's in for if he keeps his mouth shut.

He does. 

"Nobody told me you'd be such a jealous man," John licks into his lips. 

Something clinks against his chest. John knows the sound so well - he's immediately aware that Sherlock has found his military dog tags, and is indeed wearing them around his neck. John is torn between flattery, and the urge to strangle him for rifling through his things. 

"Once more, your poor observation skills betray you," Sherlock says. He's beautiful, light catching the side of his face, his voice a sultry bass. "You should have known the day I borrowed your phone." 

When they step out of the cab, John rights the scarf, and Sherlock tucks the dog tags back into his collar. They've got plenty of strings, and they don't bother hiding any of them.  


End file.
